I am from rollerskates, from Hypercolor and Get in Shape Girl.
I am from the tall, white house with brown shag carpeting...the damp basement where disco, tile floors, and wood paneling lives...the cul-de-sac of fireflies, where you run home when you hear the embarassing cowbell.
I am from the fiery orange marigolds, the rainy-day campground made of old sheets and blankets.
I am from overly generous gift-giving and guilt complexes, from Wilbur in Wisconsin and Beatrice and Grandpa Joe who managed to fall in love after tragedy, illness, death, and abuse.
I am from the shortest of tempers and warmest of hearts.
I am from "it's rude to point at people," and "don't take that tone with me."
I am from the Methodists, Lutherans, Calvinists, and Congregationalists. I am from a childhood church that welcomes all, judges none, and always remembers my name when I manage to attend services.
I'm from England, Scotland, Norway and Sweden, from cheesy potato casserole and pot roast.
From the father who hitch-hiked to his father's funeral, the mother who rode a camel and makes things better, and the sister who I only recently came to understand.
I am from a rolltop desk drawer of packages, envelopes, and postcards, a half-finished scrapbook, and a expandable, brown legal filing system. I am from the smell of old paper, the sound of crackly photo lining, and the pictures that tell the story of common, yet extraordinary, lives.
I got this idea from Torrie, who got it from someone else. Make your own poetry, sort of...like mad-libs with a purpose.
I am from the tall, white house with brown shag carpeting...the damp basement where disco, tile floors, and wood paneling lives...the cul-de-sac of fireflies, where you run home when you hear the embarassing cowbell.
I am from the fiery orange marigolds, the rainy-day campground made of old sheets and blankets.
I am from overly generous gift-giving and guilt complexes, from Wilbur in Wisconsin and Beatrice and Grandpa Joe who managed to fall in love after tragedy, illness, death, and abuse.
I am from the shortest of tempers and warmest of hearts.
I am from "it's rude to point at people," and "don't take that tone with me."
I am from the Methodists, Lutherans, Calvinists, and Congregationalists. I am from a childhood church that welcomes all, judges none, and always remembers my name when I manage to attend services.
I'm from England, Scotland, Norway and Sweden, from cheesy potato casserole and pot roast.
From the father who hitch-hiked to his father's funeral, the mother who rode a camel and makes things better, and the sister who I only recently came to understand.
I am from a rolltop desk drawer of packages, envelopes, and postcards, a half-finished scrapbook, and a expandable, brown legal filing system. I am from the smell of old paper, the sound of crackly photo lining, and the pictures that tell the story of common, yet extraordinary, lives.
I got this idea from Torrie, who got it from someone else. Make your own poetry, sort of...like mad-libs with a purpose.
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